


ravenous

by carrionkid



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Everyone Meet My Bastard Choir Boy, Gen, Murder, beasts - Freeform, the choir - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25984876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrionkid/pseuds/carrionkid
Summary: time to introduce my bastardous deranged ex-choir boy oc >:3chis name is sylvain and he's now dedicated his life to caring for some beasts that used to be his choir cohorts.--Never in his life had Sylvain been so thrilled. Finally, after all their years of work, one of their own had been touched by their gods. It was a messy, frightful thing indeed, but no one ever claimed it would bepleasant.Besides, what birth does not begin with some level ofagony?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	ravenous

They had names once. 

They still  _ do,  _ albeit different ones than they had for their original bodies. For the longest time, he could not comprehend these names, but now he can finally  _ understand  _ them, once again.

He has come a great way to be able to do even that. But they are  _ his _ , and he adores them, and no sacrifice is too great for their sake.

One of them stirs, agitated, and butts their head against his side. He smooths his hand over the cracked flesh, the worn bone, the scant traces of matted hair. He sleeps between them both; they keep him warm and they keep him safe, as they always have.

The transformation happened suddenly. He should have sensed it. Or perhaps, he did, but something in the pit of his gut told him that this was destiny, divine intervention.

He remembers his dearest Nichol dropping to his knees and screaming. He remembers the crack of bone, the wet, tear of flesh, and the awed silence that followed. 

Never in his life had Sylvain been so thrilled. Finally, after all their years of work, one of their own had been touched by their gods. It was a messy, frightful thing indeed, but no one ever claimed it would be  _ pleasant.  _

Besides, what birth does  _ not  _ begin with some level of agony?

Studious Eleanor fell next, robes wet with her own blood from where her ribcage came undone. At that point, some of the others fled, as though this was something to be feared. Others stood frozen in place, unable to move.

In the end, they all fought valiantly, but it mattered little. The two creatures tore them all limb from limb, one after the other. That is, save for Sylvain.

They spared him for a reason. Perhaps they knew how beautiful they were in his eyes, or how intertwined their destinies were. Perhaps they remembered him, although they had transcended their bodies, changed into something else entirely.

Nichol--for he still calls him that in the quiet moments, the ones between dream and reality--whines, restless even as Sylvain attempts to soothe him.

"Yes, I know you are hungry, beloved," he whispers, smiling softly against his fur, feeling the heave of his chest, "No one has come close of late and you do not appreciate it when I wander far, dearest."

He  _ will _ have to wander far at some point, sooner rather than later. They are all growing weak after such a lengthy time from their last feeding. No hunters have been luckless enough to wander their way in  _ days. _

Those stray hunters should be  _ grateful _ , truly. What higher honor could there be than to give oneself over to those that have transcended past their original forms?

But there is little need for things such as punctuality, or early mornings, now. He answers to none other than his companions, and even they are unbothered by much of anything. They have no obligations, nothing holds any importance to them save for the desire to  _ live. _

He supposes they  _ are  _ his church now. The cosmos pale in comparison; he has never encountered anything as  _ stunning _ as them, even before he could understand them, before he could see their truer forms. He worships them. He serves them. He cares for them as perfectly as he possibly can.

Which is why he finally sits up and stretches out with a yawn. He would wither away a thousand times over before letting them starve.

Eleanor claws out for the space he previously occupied, milky eyes shining like moonlight.

"Sleep," he says, tangling his fingers in her fur, "I will return with wonderful morsels for you both."

Sylvain gets to his feet, smiling fondly when Nichols' tail wraps around his ankle. It only stays there for a heartbeat or so, before slipping away.

The air is cold in the hollowed out building. He rarely is aware of it until he strays far from his companions, but he shivers now as he weaves between the scattered bones covering the floor. They cut deeply if he is not careful, although pain means little to him these days.

He keeps his clothing in one of the chests of drawers that survived the wreckage of that fateful night. His companions care not about his attire (or lack thereof), and it holds no significance to him any longer. He uses them only when he must hunt.

It is a clever twist of fate; he has achieved what they sought after for so long and now he feels nothing towards those ideals.

But the garb still looks the same. He has not had cause to clean it; although bloodstained, they serve him well as a lure. He lets the trousers hang low on his hips and laces his boots up, already bracing himself for the arduous task of donning his undershirt and robes.

There is a burning itch, just below his shoulder blade, and no matter how often he rakes his nails over it, he finds no relief. 

It is another rune, working its way to the surface of his skin. 

The first ones came from himself. He knew of hunters using Caryll's runes for wonderous effects, but he had never heard tell of the process. He must have done  _ something  _ correctly, because the more he added, the more he  _ understood. _

Ease of healing came as well, as did the lessening of pain, and before long, he had killed for the first time.  _ That  _ was when the runes began to appear upon him.

_ They are a gift, _ he supposes.  _ They only ever offer him useful changes. _

It comes at a price, like all such gifts. He has no say in the runes and the flesh is raw, scabbed over and burning for days on end. He grinds his teeth as he pulls on his undershirt; the rough fabric rubs against the fresh rune. He endures these things for his companions, his dearests. 

Undoubtedly, they would be able to hunt  _ without  _ him, but he worries over them. People are much slower to draw on him than on them and it makes his blood run cold just thinking of allowing them out and only one--or gods forbid, none--making it home.

So, he hunts for them. That way, they can always be safe. 

They roam through the building, through the courtyard and the gardens surrounding it. They rarely stray far from him, for his sake as much as theirs. Before he had perfected his ability to fight, they often saved him from a most gruesome end at the hands of a blood-drunk hunter.

Now, he's strong enough to take on most anyone alone, which is why he has resorted to setting up wards around the boundaries of their home. It does not hurt them; he divined the technique from a dream, whispered into his ear by a many tongued Great One. They are content to stay within the unseen walls of their research building.

Sylvain dons his robe next, still tying his belt as carefully and fluidly as he was taught when he was barely eighteen. It has tarnished in the time it has spent mostly untouched, but most do not look closely enough to realize it.

Even with how bloody and worn his clothing is, he is rarely questioned by anyone. He is perfectly disguised, seen as a seamless part of a world he barely belongs to now. Many look upon him, but so scant few ever  _ see _ him for what he is.

Finally, he gathers up his hair and ties it back into a bun. He has found that people trust him more when they are not aware of its length. Then, he puts on his blindfold cap. 

It is a strange object  _ now,  _ almost superstitious in how the Choir supposed it would function. Such a childish thought that one could grow to understand beyond human comprehension simply by obscuring their eyes.

But it matters little to him beyond its current usage as a lure. At last, he is ready to  _ hunt. _

Sylvain slips out into the courtyard of the research building and checks over his wards once before leaving the perimeter of the building. Few people come this way, but he hopes he will not have to walk long in order to find someone.

* * *

There is a hunter at the edge of the tangled, unkempt area surrounding the research building. He breathes raggedly, already indulging in blood to heal himself. But he appears to have some skill; three dogs lay at his feet, viscera pooling beneath them.

He will be perfect, meaty enough to tide over his beloveds for a short while, at least until the next hunter comes close.

Sylvain breaks into a sprint, crying out, "Help! Help! Oh, please, someone!"

His voice is strange, somewhat unused. His beloveds prefer lower tones, soft and deep, and he has little use for speaking with anyone else. It grates at the back of his throat, crying out so frantically, but he would do  _ anything  _ for them.

The hunter perks up, drawing his weapon. It is of the utmost importance to tread carefully, as Sylvain wants to avoid a fight at all costs until the hunter is within the wards.

"Please," he calls once more, "There's beasts further in the ruins!"

"You're a long way from home, choir boy," the hunter laughs slightly, tipping his head to the side as if to study Sylvain, "Come now, show me where they are."

These ones are the easiest to catch; always so cocky, so proud, convinced that they are stronger and smarter and faster than anyone else. The keener hunters are harder to ensnare, rarely trusting anyone, always wide-eyed and hesitant.

Sylvain takes the lead, attempting to move as though he does not know the ruins as well as he does, "This way, quickly, I fear they may have followed me."

"I doubt it. You would be dead by now. They probably got bored."

It is not a true attack on their honor, but it still makes him bristle thinking of the disrespect. His beloveds are far more intelligent and cunning than anyone could ever conceive of. However, he still has a part to play as a harmless bystander to the brutality of this world.

At least this hunter should not be astute enough to notice the wards surrounding the research building. The smarter ones are always harder to trick.

Once they reach the courtyard, he pauses and points towards the crumbling arched entrance to the building, "I stumbled across those…  _ things  _ in there."

The hunter strides forward, not even needing any suggestion from Sylvain, "Stand back. I would hate for you to be caught in the middle of this."

It is all going  _ perfectly.  _ He grins to himself, watching the hunter's back as he heads into the ruins. What a foolhardy thing, clutching his sword as if it would save him from his destined demise.

Sylvain follows behind him, soft and silent as a shadow. People rarely notice him unless he deigns it necessary and this hunter is halfway blood-drunk already, head clouded with thoughts of glory. They are _ pathetic,  _ so easily consumed by their desires and vices.

The building itself is dark, though he knows it as well as the back of his hand. But, the hunter does not have such an advantage; he stops abruptly after crushing a bone beneath his boots, extending his trick weapon into its second form. Sylvain pauses, breath held until the hunter resumes his movements.

Once he's certain the hunter will not turn back, he reaches out in the shadowed light, feeling for the Amygdalan arm he keeps hidden in the foyer. It fits so perfectly in his hand, like an extension of himself, buzzing with a writhing need to  _ move.  _

Sylvain strokes it with his empty hand, thinking,  _ soon, we must be patient. _

It would be pointless to strike before the hunter is far enough into the ruins that he wouldn't be able to get away. The last thing Sylvain needs is a cocky hunter slipping through his fingers and coming back with revenge on his mind and a couple friends at his side.

So he will wait. Just a little bit longer, even though the anticipation crawls up his spine. It has been far too long since any of them have fed.

"Where are these beasts,  _ anyway?"  _ The hunter calls out.

"Close, oh hunter."

He pauses for a second, as if he might reconsider, but it is already far too late. Sylvain steps back carefully, legs bent in preparation, and swings out the Amygdalan arm.

It claws out, having a life, a thirsting  _ need _ of its own, and slices cleanly into the back of the hunter's legs. There is a weighted second of silence before his sword clatters to the stone floor. The man wails, dropping to his knees, blood already pooling around him.

Sylvain can smell it in the air. Which means his beloveds can, as well.

"Why," the hunter pulls himself forward with his arms, unable to roll, unable to get back to his feet, with his calf muscles shredded by the boney claws, "Why did you--"

"Darlings," Sylvain calls out, "Look what I brought for you!"

"Y-you're one of them," the hunter shrieks, "You even s-sound like them!"

There is little point to a  _ reply.  _ It  _ aches  _ to attempt to speak in a way the hunters understand. Though, the man is  _ wrong.  _ He does not speak the language of beasts. He speaks the language of  _ gods. _

It matters not. The click of claws against the floor echoes throughout the ruins and the hunter prays softly from where he rests on the ground. He asks for a quick death, an honorable one, and speaks of the  _ dream. _ Such a pathetic being, unaware of what an honor this is.

His beloveds are close; he can hear them bickering, Nichol ever so eager, forgetting his manners. Sylvain watches him throw Eleanor against the wall before scrambling into the hallway first.

"Play nicely," he chides, and Nichol hangs his head for a fraction of a second before turning back to the hunter on the ground.

Eleanor rams Nichol out of the way before he can do much beyond lapping at the blood pooling around their meal. She is far more efficient out of the two of them, much as she was in her previous life. She nips at the hunter's hand as it attempts to bat her away with no avail.

Her teeth cut cleanly through his hunter's leathers as though they were not even there and he screams out. 

Sylvain removes his blindfold cap and crouches by the hunter's side, resting his hand against the man's back, "Shhh, it is a beautiful thing. You will see."

Nichol loops around, giving Eleanor her space. He sinks his teeth into the meat of the man's leg, making the hunter  _ shriek.  _ Sylvain continues to mutter softly in an attempt to soothe him. There is nothing dignified about the desperate tears running down the hunter's cheek.

Blood splatters against Sylvain's cheek, the result of some unseen action. The only thing that Sylvain's eyes are fixed upon is the sublime look gracing the hunter's face. It is one of pure awe, no longer contorted by pain, but merely blank. Mouth hanging loose, blood streaked upon his teeth, and eyes glassy, glazed over.

"You understand now, yes? How wonderful it is?"

Some hushed word bubbles on the hunter's lips, color draining from his flesh as his eyes roll back into his head.

"Wait, my beloveds, be patient, it is my turn," he whispers; he would do anything for them, but he  _ still _ needs to feed.

His voice always appears to cut through their blood-starved trance. They both bow their heads, gnashing their teeth. Nichol nudges the hunter towards Sylvain, urging him to be quick.

The hunter whines and reaches out for him, still breathing against all odds. 

He makes soft sounds, the kind he uses to soothe his beloveds, as he strokes the back of the hunter's neck. Then, he reaches for one of the stones crumbled from the research hall walls and slams it into the top of the hunter's skull. The bone cracks easily and the hunter goes slack beneath his hand. 

He sets the stone aside as his beloveds watch him carefully, eyes so very human from this angle.

Sylvain picks the shards of bone and hair from the top of the hunter's head, giving way to soft flesh, still warm to the touch. He sinks his fingers into the grey matter until he can feel the static touch of insight. Following the first contact, he closes his eyes and sees himself spooling the insight around his gloved fingers through the thin layer of skin obscuring his earthly vision.

It pools in his hands, following the course of his veins up into his arms. 

Originally, he could not see the process. It remained a mystery until the fifth or sixth year since his darlings transformed. Perhaps it is thanks to the runes, or perhaps this understanding called them to appear upon his skin.

It is all tangled together, the silken spider-web of existence.

He knows now that nothing awaits his sky-minded comrades in the cosmos. They all dance on silver strings, pulled every which way by fate.

The insight prickles beneath his skin, like cool fingers walking along his spine. However, the runes marring his flesh  _ burn. _

He pulls his hand out of the hunter's skull, now desperate to free himself from the stifling weight of his choir garb. Sylvain tears at the soft cloth, flecks of tissue and blood streaking across the white robe. 

Nichol approaches him first, head bowed, snout nudging at Sylvain's legs. He casts the robe aside. It is easier still to remove his gloves and once his fingers are bare, he tangles them in Nichol's hair.

" _ Eat _ ," he says; language, even the god-like tongue he uses for his beloveds does not come readily when he has glutted himself on insight.

Nichol turns back to the hunter's corpse, all too willing to ensure that Eleanor does not take more than him.

Sylvain resumes his work. He allows the skirts to pool at his feet, unlacing his boots afterwards. Already, he has reached the lowest layer, but he still feels as though he is being  _ strangled. _

The only reprieve comes when he sheds it at long last and steps out of the discarded garb, feet flat against the cool stone floor.

There is very little left of the hunter. He was a strong, stocky thing, but Nichol and Eleanor require a great deal of meat to stay  _ happy.  _ They make quick work of the bones, shattered against strong teeth.

_ At least they are cooperating this time _ , he smiles to himself, too many times has he had to mediate between them so they may both eat their fill.

Sylvain leaves them to their meal. The process of feeding on insight is an arduous one at best, and he is growing tired now that the initial jolt of it has worn off. Accordingly, he returns to the heart of the research building, and with it, their makeshift bed.

His darling’s snarls in the other room will lull him to sleep as gently as waves lapping against the coast. Soon enough they will join him, curled on either side of him and well-fed.

It is as familiar as breathing, as the beating of his heart. He was always meant to care for them such as this; that much is clear to him. 

Such beautiful things, made in the image of gods. And oh how lucky he is, to have them as  _ his,  _ and his alone, forever under his watchful eye.


End file.
